


Your Hands Are Pretty

by ARollingStone



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M, Stancest - Freeform, Teenage Stan Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:48:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22734346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARollingStone/pseuds/ARollingStone
Summary: Stan's got something to say to Ford.
Relationships: Ford Pines/Stan Pines
Comments: 13
Kudos: 67





	Your Hands Are Pretty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HarveyDangerfield](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyDangerfield/gifts).



> A Valentines Day gift to my husband.

It's taken some time for them to settle in after Weirdmageddon. With the kids gone, the house feels emptier than it has in some time, and Ford's noticed his brother moping around a little bit in their absence, but when he gets him talking about the upcoming boat voyage, it seems to put him in good spirits, so that's what he's stuck to so far. 

They've been catching up on lost time when they can stand to, but Stanley seems injured by the discussions. He can tell that his brother is still blaming himself for Ford's thirty year disappearance, and honestly Ford can't really offer any comfort. That may be because a small part of him blames Stan too, and he knows that he's got to pull through those feelings on his own. Both of them alike have many things to process, and some of it can only be done in private. 

Being intimate has been their greatest comfort in all of this, but Ford has yet to start sleeping in Stanley's bed. He isn't sure if his brother would want him in such a vulnerable place yet, considering the events of the last month or two, and of course as usual, he's oblivious to Stan's hints. Even if it hadn't been awhile since they'd been intimate, Ford has just never been good with people, so often when Stan drops a hint that he'd like for him to come sleep with him, it's completely ignored by Ford in lieu of whatever hyperfixation he's currently entranced by. 

But it's very hard to ignore when he hears the thrum of the elevator down into the lab. When the doors open to reveal his brother shuffling out in his house shoes and robe, draped around nothing but his boxers, he can tell he's having trouble sleeping. Since he's been getting his memory back, he's had harships with sleeping, it's not the first time he's visited Ford in the lab. Usually he'll just fall asleep on the couch and leave Ford to his work, but tonight he comes up behind him at his desk, and puts both big paws on his shoulders.

"Can't sleep?" Stanford asks, he seems a little nervous, but Stan can't discern why. He just grumbles under his breath by way of responding, so Ford continues. "You could lay on the couch. I'm just calibrating some of my instruments at the moment--if you don't think the noise would keep you awake, you're welcome to sleep down here." 

"I came to see you, Poindexter." Stanley finally says, his hands massaging down from Ford's shoulders to his chest and the way his brother sighs with bliss at the touch makes Stan growl again. "I was just thinkin' about ya. Been closed up in here for awhile, sometimes I don't think ya know time's passed." 

Ford smiles sadly then, "You may be right about that. Time in the Otherworld was different. In the Multiverse, the passage of time was often irrelvent. If you need me, all you have to do is ask, Stanley." 

"I am askin' ya knucklehead." Stan growls, but he doesn't sound annoyed. Well, maybe a little bit annoyed, but it's nothing if not playful. 

"Oh. Well, yes." Ford says stupidly, still a bit jelly brained because of Stan's shoulder massage. His brother dips his head, and kisses the shell of his ear, and as he bends over, he glances down at Ford's desk. 

"Your hands are shakin'." He says, worry tinting his voice. 

"Ah yes ....I had an accident earlier. Nothing more than a mishap, my fingers got caught in a mechanism, they're alright. Just a little bruised." Ford coughs under his breath, feeling suddenly a bit scrutinized. "It's nothing." 

"C'mere." Stan says, and he crosses the space from the desk, to the couch nearby. It's set up as more of a daybed so that Ford can catch a wink if he gets too tired to come upstairs, so it's outfitted with blankets and sheets, and of course a few, cutesy little throw pillows that Mabel had whipped together before she'd left. There's even a knitted blanket that was made by the selfsame girl. She couldn't let her Grunkle be uncomfortable, and honestly Ford had appreciated the gesture, even if he'd been a bit stuffy about receiving the gifts. 

Ford puts his tools away, and sits down beside Stan on the couch, hip to hip. It conjures a strong memory of sitting knee to knee on the couch in the little apartment above the pawn shop when they were kids. His ears go a little red when Stan takes his hands tenderly, and starts to massage them. 

"it's really nothing, Stanley." He deflects, unsure of why the special attention is making his tummy flip flop in the way it is. It feels like there's something stuck in the back of his mind, a memory he can't quite conjure into focus, but it leaves him a moment later. His memories from before going into the portal have sometimes come up foggy. He chalks it up to that. 

Stan really takes his time with his hands. He starts with the left one first, massaging the palm between both of his hands, nearly identical save for Stanford's sixth finger, and the bruises and old scars on Stanley's knuckles. There's a sort of ticklish, intimate heat that's generated across Ford's palm that jolts down his fingertips as Stan works his hand over, running his palm straight down Ford's from fingertip to wrist, then back up, cupping his whole hand in both of his. Then he works down every finger individually, and the whole affair has Ford's head buzzing and feeling cottony, almost sleepy. 

And as Stan starts to work on the other hand, Ford is completely oblivious to what the massage seems to be doing to Stanley. His whole face is red from his nose up to his hairline, and he's sweating like he's been put under a heat lamp in mid July. In fact, Ford probably would have continued to bliss out until he fell asleep, if it wasn't for the fact that the massaging palms of Stanley's hands have gone damp and hot just like the rest of him. That's when he takes notice. 

He doesn't say anything at first. His brother's been known to sweat for no particular reason, a charming trait that Dipper had inherited in spades; but when he looks over at Stan, his brother's brow is furrowed deeply in concentration, and he's grumbling to himself now and again, sweat collecting in droplets on his forehead--and it clicks into place. The memory Ford had been unable to recall a moment ago comes flooding back to him, and he recalls Stan's affinity for his hands when they'd been much younger. 

Sitting knee to knee on their mother's couch, with the house to themselves, Stan had explored Ford's hands reverently, as if he were paying tribute at an altar. Just like now, it had fuzzed out Ford's brain so effectively that he'd nearly fallen asleep, which may be why he'd had a foggy memory of it in the first place. And back then, it had done exactly the same thing to Stan as it's doing to him now. Turning him to absolute mush.

"Stanley..." He finally says, spreading his fingers. They're not shaking anymore. 

"Huh? Whut?" Stan asks, looking up into his brother's eyes like he's seeing him for the first time. 

He doesn't know how to broach the topic without embarrassing Stan, so he just asks: "Are you alright?" 

"What? Yeah. Yeah I'm fine." A flimsy denial at best, and when Ford gives him A Look, Stan glances away, his shoulders coming up around his ears. "I was just givin' ya a massage. I didn't mean it to turn into a whole thing." 

"This happened once before. Do you remember?" Ford asks gently, bypassing Stan's self deprecating comments. "When we were fifteen or sixteen, you and I were holding hands, and you seemed flustered by them then, too." 

"I dunno. They're just nice to look at." Stan says defensively, his shoulders still insulating his ears.

"Oh for Petessake." Ford laughs, placing his hand on his brother's cheek, he turns his eyes to meet his and laughs. "You really think that's *weird?* After everything we've been through, do you really think that a little hand fetish would make me run out of the room?" 

"Don't call it that." Stan groans, but he does laugh then, a good sign at least. "I just like 'em. Always thought they were kinda pretty, ya know? Unique. I've never seen anybody's hands that were as pretty as yours." 

Ford's face softens then, his heart warming at Stan's words. He licks his lips, then takes hold of Stanley's hands, lacing their fingers together. It's always been awkward, but they've made it work since they were kids. He states simply: "You like my hands." 

"I love your hands." Stan corrects, squeezing his fingers together with Ford's. "I love seeing 'em, I love it when ya touch me. I like watching ya work with 'em. It's like ya don't even realize how...pretty they are." 

"I guess I never thought of them as pretty." Ford says sadly, and he drops their hands down onto their laps and unlaces his fingers from Stan's. "But we all have things about us that we don't realize are beautiful, I suppose." 

To prove his point, he runs both hands up Stan's big, soft tummy, fingers tickling through the coarse, curly hair there. He pays special attention to his gut, lifting the heavy curve under his palms and letting it drop back into place. Then he drags them up over Stan's chest, and laces his fingers at the back of his neck so he can lean in and kiss him. 

Stanley groans softly into his mouth, their tongues meeting in the middle for only a brief moment. Ford pulls away just long enough to eye him, then claims his mouth again, this time as they kiss he runs his fingers through the hair on the back of Stan's head, tousling the curls there, and mirroring him, Stan's fingers trail through the curly fringe of hair at the nape of his neck. When they finally pull back to look at each other, Stan's face is still beet red, and Ford's is starting to match. 

"Will ya come to bed with me?" Stan ducks his head, tracing Ford's palm. "Please? I know you're workin', but just havin' you there'd help me sleep." 

Ford traces his thumb delicately across Stan's cheek, just under his eye and leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth, "Of course." identical eyes meet Stan's and he asks quietly, "Can you tell me again, Stanley?" 

He covers Ford's hand on his cheek and leans into his palm, nearly whispering it this time. 

"Your hands are pretty."


End file.
